


The Rules

by Aethelflaed



Series: ILL OMENS: The Quarantine Fics [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Implied Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's not a big thing but one of the last conversations gets a bit rough, Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Outsider, Pastries Everywhere, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Robbing the Bookshop, lots of cake, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: Trapped in lockdown, Aziraphale attempts to write a letter to Crowley. But he is interrupted (repeatedly) by some neighborhood interlopers with designs on the bookshop cashbox.--
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: ILL OMENS: The Quarantine Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707424
Comments: 50
Kudos: 237
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	The Rules

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ties in directly to the Good Omens Lockdown video on YouTube. However, while everyone else seemed concerned with giving them a proper reconciliation after the conversation, I thought, well, what about the "lads" who tried to rob Soho's most clearly haunted bookshop in the middle of a lockdown...?
> 
> (TW for referenced/implied child abuse (physical) and for briefly implied transphobia.)

> _Dear Crowley._

The black ink flowed across the yellowed paper, trailing behind Aziraphale’s pen.

He frowned, and scratched it out.

> _My Dearest Friend._

He barely finished the final letter before crossing it out even more frantically than before.

> _Anthony._

Now that was just absurd. Another sharp line across the page.

> _Crowley._

Aziraphale all but threw the pen into the inkwell. He grabbed the paper in both hands and tore it in half – in half again – and again – and again, ink smudging and staining his fingers.

Stupid, stupid, stupid idea.

When he was finished, he dumped the confettied remains of the letter onto his desk and glared at them until they started to smolder, the first wisp of smoke twisting into the air.

Then, with a sigh, he waved his hand, returning them to a single sheet of clean parchment paper.

How long had he been in lockdown now? Six weeks? Seven? Eight?

Long enough to start coming up with foolish ideas. Long enough to begin questioning things that he knew were probably better left unquestioned and unsaid.

He took himself over to the shop’s kitchen and started the kettle boiling again. Cocoa? No, tea. And a nice slice of cake, that’s what he needed. The red velvet this time, he thought.

Crowley liked red velvet cake. Not that he admitted to it, but he never turned down an offered bite. And he would smile, just a bit, as he chewed it, eyes hovering across the top of his glasses...

When he’d gathered his treats, Aziraphale settled again at the desk, carefully restacking his books to make room for the cake and mug. He dimmed the lights around the shop, put on a soothing record, tried to find that calm center that allowed him to think clearly. He’d never _actually_ found it before, but he’d read about it in books on meditation, and it sounded jolly useful.

Finally, with a deep breath, he carefully picked up the pen again, tapping it against the glass of the inkwell so that it didn’t drip, and tackled the paper again.

> _My dear Crowley,_
> 
> _I hope these strange new days see you well, and that you are not causing too much trouble on your side of London. Things have certainly been quiet over here, but you know that’s how I prefer it. Perhaps I should close the shop more often!_
> 
> _I finally had a chance to read that author you suggested, and while I couldn’t locate any of your recommended titles, I’ve found Chesterton’s “Orthodoxy” to be quite a fascinating read…_

\--

> _…and so I find myself with rather an overabundance of time! While the baking has been going exceedingly well, I feel that something is missing. I can’t quite put my finger on_

The sound of breaking glass at the back of the shop. Aziraphale frowned. He didn’t keep anything breakable back there, just boxes of newly arrived books, supply storage, and of course the back door –

Ah. That probably explained it.

He stood up, pausing to wipe the crumbs from his face, and retrieve his favorite umbrella from the hat stand. A soft _thump_ from somewhere in the back room put a little more speed into his step.

\--

“Watch where you’re going,” Dru hissed, jerking his foot free of the box Tommy had knocked over. Books spilled out across the floor.

“Sorry,” muttered Tommy leaning over to restack them. They were those old books with weird hard-cloth covers, stamped with the names of dead poets he half-remembered from school. They smelt like dust. The whole shop smelt pretty gross, actually, like someone had hidden old cheese in a corner and let it sit there since Christmas.

“Don’t bother with that.” Dru kicked over the books. They slid across the floor, mixing with the broken glass. Tommy scrambled back. Dru was _much_ bigger than him, over six feet tall, taller when he was angry. “I told you, look for the cash box. It’s gotta be back here somewhere.”

“Says who?” Jack was on his hands and knees nudging his way through more boxes towards the corner wall. “I’ve been looking forever and there’s – look, nothing _again.”_

“Shhh.” Tommy shrank back towards the broken window, glancing into the alley outside. He could still hear the scratchy old record playing at the front of the shop, and he didn’t think he could jump out the window quickly enough if they were caught. “This was a stupid idea, Dru. There’s someone here, and he’s going to hear us –”

“Just some old bloke,” Dru waved his hand angrily. “He’s run the shop forever, gotta be a hundred years old. You scared of him? Just find the safe.”

 _“What_ safe?” Jack crawled back out of the corner. “I told you there isn’t any bloody –”

“There’s always a safe in the back. It’s a _rule.”_

“I’m afraid it is not, in fact, a rule. Otherwise I would have one.” Tommy spun, and there, not ten feet away, stood the old bookseller. He was dressed in an ancient suit, hands resting on a tartan umbrella, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. “However, I’ve always though the logical place to keep money is in the till, so that’s where it is.”

Dru whipped out his knife, pointing it at the bookseller’s face. Jack followed a moment later, fumbling with the unfamiliar blade.

The bookseller just watched them, lips pursed. With a sinking feeling, Tommy realized he was nowhere near a hundred. The white-haired man looked barely older than Tommy’s dad, and at least as strong. Tommy had a good sense for when someone was not a person to cross, and this man set off _every_ alarm bell.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly afraid the bookseller might recognize the dust from the brick Tommy threw into the window.

Dru waved his knife, trying to recover. “You just stay over there, right? We don’t want to hurt you.”

“No,” the bookseller said seriously. “You don’t.”

Jack lowered his knife and shuffled his feet.

“Shut it,” snapped Dru. “Right. We know where it is now. Tommy, go get the till.”

“Thomas do _not_ get the till,” the bookseller snapped. His eyes flicked down, studying the mess all across the floor. When he looked up again, pulling his glasses off, his gaze pierced Tommy like a pair of blue icicles. “Did _you_ knock over my books?”

“Yessir,” Tommy muttered, flinching away. He never liked arguing. Easier to go along with what people told him. Normally, at least, he would just agree and keep his mouth shut. But today, he felt the words bubbling inside him, fighting their way free. “And I broke the window. But Dru kicked the books over. I tried to clean, honest.”

“I see.” The blue eyes studied Dru, then drifted over to Jack. “And you?”

“I just moved the boxes, I didn’t break anything.”

“Well.” The bookseller took a step towards them. “I hope you all feel _very_ ashamed of yourselves.” Tommy immediately did, though that wasn’t too unusual. He always felt ashamed of something. “Don’t you know there’s a lockdown going on just now? Pandemics are very _serious_ business. You are breaking the rules – rules that are put in place to _keep you safe._ People could _die_ from your carelessness, do you understand that?”

“Look,” Dru stepped forward, waving his knife a bit more urgently. “I don’t give a shit about that. You need to –”

The bookseller swung his umbrella like a sword, knocking Dru’s knife across the room. “I wasn’t finished talking. Now you go back over there and _listen_ for once in your life. And mind your language in this shop.” Dru blinked, and shuffled back towards the wall. The bookseller’s eyes turned to Jack, who was already hastily putting his own knife back into his pocket. “Much better. Where was I?”

“People could die,” Tommy prompted.

“Right. Thank you, dear boy.” He smiled, just briefly, and for the first time in a long, long time Tommy felt that maybe there was more to the world than a steaming pile of garbage. He almost wanted to smile, too. “Now. You three being out right now is against all the rules, not to mention breaking and entering, and putting your hands – and feet – on my books. These are all _very serious_ crimes.” He put aside the umbrella and folded his hands behind his back. “I want you to tell me what, exactly, brought you here tonight.”

“Money,” Tommy said quickly, but he could feel more words twisting their way up his throat, secrets threatening to spill across the floor.

Jack beat him to it. “Bored. Nothing to do. Just sitting at home, watching my folks grow old, and everyone gets angrier and angrier and I can’t think inside that room anymore, I don’t _feel_ anything –”

“What are you talking about?” Dru demanded, stepping forward again. He didn’t look as confident as before, but much, much angrier. “Look, we’re here for your money, not to tell our life stories. I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to pull here, but just hand it over and I won’t have to get medieval on your ass.”

“Really? What a curious turn of phrase.”

“Dru always gets angry when he’s not in control,” Tommy said, not really knowing where the words came from. “I don’t know if he’s ever killed anyone but he always acts like he has.”

“Does he indeed? I’m afraid I know the type.” The look he gave Dru could have broken through a concrete wall. “And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

“That you’d better fucking _watch yourself,_ old man.” He’d managed to get right up to the bookseller’s face, and now jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Or you’re gonna regret what comes next.”

“Yes, I’m rather afraid I will.” The bookseller turned and picked up an ancient telephone, spinning a little dial on the front. “I want you to know that I tried very hard to keep it from coming to this.”

“Who you calling?” Dru sneered. “The cops?”

Frowning, the bookseller pressed the telephone to his ear. “No, Andrew Morgan, I am calling your grandmother.”

For a moment, there was no sound in the shop but a strange, strangled noise coming from Dru.

“Ah, yes, is this Delores Morgan? Yes, I’m afraid there’s a rather angry young man in my shop. Tall, rude, really using the most atrocious language – ah, yes, I’m afraid so. Yes. With a knife. Oh, of course.” He held out the telephone. “She’d like to speak to you now.”

With a shaking hand, Dru took it from him. “Nana?”

\--

Half an hour later, Tommy was sitting at a little round table in the back of the shop, nibbling on a scone. Jack sat next to him, dipping his own in a mug of tea, trying to eat it quickly without dripping.

“I’m not saying I don’t understand,” the bookseller started, coming over with another plate. “Sourdough?”

“Yes, please,” said Tommy, taking a thick slice.

A thump echoed from the back room. “Just stack them up neatly like they were, there’s a good lad,” the bookseller called cheerfully. Dru grumbled, but not so that they could make out the words.

“As I was saying. This is a very difficult time for all of us. Financially, yes,” he nodded to Tommy, “but it can also put a strain on our mental health. I really do think you should talk to someone.”

“Where am I supposed to find a doctor at a time like this?” Jack complained.

“I have been led to believe the Googles can provide these things.” Tommy fought back a laugh. “What? What did I say?”

“It’s…uh, it’s not called _the Googles.”_

“It isn’t? Oh, dear. Regardless, I’m sure you can use your computer to find what you need. There are resources. But you _must_ follow the rules. They are here to keep you safe.” He picked up a tray of muffins and carried them back towards the hidden kitchen. “In the meantime, perhaps you should try revisiting an old hobby. What is it you like to do?”

“Dunno,” muttered Jack. He started glancing around the room for inspiration.

Tommy had already studied their surroundings pretty thoroughly. Tons of trinkets, some of them cheap looking but almost all of them old. Pieces of art, some of them framed, others carefully laying across tables. Statues. One statue wore a bit fancy medal around it’s neck. The plates of cake and pastry on literally every surface. And the books. _So many_ books.

Granted, he’d expected those, but the shop seemed bigger inside, crammed with more books than a person could even _take in,_ never mind read. And the titles. The other table nearby was stacked with books called _Forbidden Rites: Necromancy in the Fifteenth Century_ or _Magic: An Occult Primer._

Tommy took everything in as quickly as he could. Jack, meanwhile, seemed to stop at the strange old drawing of a dark-haired man with his hand on a book, hanging from one of the shelves. A smile flickered across his face. “I guess…I liked to draw. When I was little.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! Yes, drawing is a very useful talent.” A moment later the bookseller emerged, carrying two enormous plates filled with cakes, breads, and something covered with cream and fruit, all wrapped carefully in plastic. “Now, this one is for you, Thomas, and mind you share with your sister. And this is for you.” When Jack took his tray, the bookseller placed a pile of printer paper on top, and two pencils. “And these. To get you started on your drawing again. It takes time, but I suppose that’s one thing we all have in abundance now.”

The bookseller clapped his hands and beamed at them. Jack muttered a thank you, but Tommy couldn’t even bring himself to do that, just stared at the tray, blinking back tears.

“Oh, and I’ll expect you both to bring the plates back when the lockdown is over. Not before! Remember, the rules are there to keep you safe.”

“Yessir.”

“Erm, excuse me.” They all turned to face Dru, who stood with his head bowed, and an expression Tommy had never seen him wear before. “All the books and glass are cleaned up. May I have some cake?”

“Well,” said the bookseller, pursing his lips. “I suppose _one_ cake, now that you’re finished.” He walked back to the kitchen to start another tray.

\--

After the lads had left, Aziraphale settled into his armchair, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. It took a lot out of him, reading people like that. Nudging them to tell their secrets. Perhaps he was just out of practice.

It had felt good, really, helping people like that. He forgot that, sometimes, how much he enjoyed giving people that little push towards solving their problems. Perhaps he should get out there and try it a little more often. After the lockdown was over, of course.

He glanced at the table, where the letter to Crowley sat half-finished. He’d quite lost his train of thought now. Oh, dear. He was sure he’d been on the cusp of something important, but his mind was too heavy. Perhaps after another glass of brandy or two…

* * *

**Three days later**

> _…It occurs to me, my dear fellow, that we’ve never exchanged letters. Not properly. And no, I will not include those ridiculous coded missives you used to send, although I did appreciate the book ciphers. But throughout our long_

The pen hovered in the air, bead of ink poised to drip. Aziraphale knew the word he’d been planning to use. He could see it, trace the letters with his mind. But…

No, once again, he lost his nerve.

> _centuries, we’ve never used this method to simply exchange pleasantries. Well, what is this time for, if not to finally accomplish that which we had long planned to do? Research. Baking. And finally writing a proper letter to my_

Another moment of panic, as his mind twisted around the one word he desperately wished to write.

Someone knocked at the back door, quick and sharp.

With a sigh, half disappointment and half relief, Aziraphale placed his pen in the inkwell and went to investigate.

\--

Tommy wrapped his arms around his stomach. “Come _on,_ Emmy. This is a terrible idea.”

His little sister scowled. “You kidding? He’s an old man who bakes cakes. What are you afraid of?”

“It’s not…there’s something _off_ about him.” He shivered as she rapped against the door again. “He’s going to figure it out, as soon as he looks at you.”

“I think you’re just chicken.” She tossed her head with a grin, short fringe of dark hair hanging in front of one eye.

“Shut _up,_ Emmy, you don’t know –”

The door opened.

The bookseller looked a little smaller by daylight. Plump, pleasant, almost harmless, except that his frown still cut sharply across Tommy’s heart. “I’m _certain_ I told you not to return until the lockdown ended.”

“Sorry. I just –”

“You!” Emmy stepped forward, waving her finger at his buttoned-up waistcoat. “What did you do to my brother?”

The bookseller blinked. But today his gaze seemed soft, almost normal. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did. He was fine before he came here, now he sits around talking about _responsibility.”_ She gave him a dirty glare. “Tries to make me _do my homework.”_

“Ah. Well, you really ought to do your homework, my dear.”

“You’re joking, right? The whole world’s gone to shit and I’m supposed to be doing math problems and reading Shakespeare?”

“Oh, I love Shakespeare!” The bookseller’s eyes lit up. Tommy felt a strange wave of delight that almost loosened the knot in his stomach, before the anxiety crashed back into place again. “Such a wonderful man. Not particularly charming, but oh, he had his moments. Are you reading _Hamlet?_ It’s my favorite, you know.”

Emmy snorted. “It’s _everyone’s_ favorite.”

“Yes, it…it is, isn’t it?” For a moment his entire demeanor changed, eyes drifting down, face turning rather pink. “Well, I did rather hope…er, never mind. What brought you two here today?”

“Emmy thinks you put a spell on me, or cursed me or something.”

“I know you’ve got magic devil books in there. Tommy saw them last time, he told me and Dad.”

The bookseller glanced between them, smiling. “Oh, good. You told your parents what you were up to.”

Tommy shrugged, hunching his shoulders, waiting for what came next. Obviously the bookseller would see right through him. “He was _really_ pissed off.”

“Yes, my boy, I’m sure he was upset at the time, but you’ll find that honesty is…” he trailed off as Emmy and Tommy exchanged a look. She was smirking, smug, while he just felt confused. “What? What is it?”

“I thought you knew,” Tommy muttered, shuffling his feet. “Cuz you can, y’know, read minds or whatever.”

The bookseller looked at Tommy until he was ready to burrow into the ground and die. Finally, the old man said, “I can’t…always. I think you’d better come in and explain things.”

\--

“Whoa,” Emmy said, grabbing a slice of thick, red cake covered in icing. “I thought you were kidding about the damn cake. Look at all this!”

“Emily,” Tommy hissed. “Behave yourself.”

“At least I’m not trying to _rob the place,”_ she pointed out, stuffing her face. “Oh, you’re right! Look at these books!” She reached for one, but the bookseller got there first, snatching it away from her frosting-covered fingers.

“That is _quite_ enough of that. Take a seat and mind your manners or I will send you straight home.”

Tommy sat quickly at the table, putting his hands on his lap, trying to force his fingers to stay still. Emmy, however, kept staring at the book, tilting her head to study the title.

“What’ve you got a book on _necromancy_ for?”

“You don’t even know what that is,” Tommy pointed out.

“Do too! Its magic that brings people back to life. Like zombies and stuff.”

The bookseller sighed and tucked the book onto a shelf. “It’s a treatise on fifteenth century necromancy, if you must know, and it’s rather more complicated than that. The word at the time referred to many types of magic, including divining the future using the bodies of the deceased, and spells and incantations to control demons.”

“Oh,” Emmy nodded. She grabbed a cupcake off a tray and shoved it into her mouth whole as she sprawled across a chair. “How come they don’t teach us _that_ at school? And why do you want to control demons?”

“I don’t,” he said simply, grimacing at the crumbs she sprayed as she spoke, as if trying to track each one through the air. “And I’d like to make sure no one else can, either.”

“You got more magic books?” She reached for another that was lying nearby, but again the bookseller got their first, gently pushing it further away.

“This is a book shop. I have many types of book. But we aren’t here to talk about that.” He pursed his lips and studied Tommy, settling into a chair across the pastry-laden table. “I believe we’re lucky your sister wasn’t here the other night. She is almost worse than your loud friend.”

“Dru’s not my friend,” Tommy muttered. It still made him cringe inside to contradict an adult, even when the bookseller wasn’t angry, but he didn’t like being associated with Dru. “And Emmy was here.”

“Was she?”

“I was the look-out.” She reached for another cupcake, this time licking the frosting off so it smeared across her mouth. “You had them in here _forever,_ then they all come out, carrying cake and things. Dru was acting like a _baby._ I thought he was gonna cry.”

“But you can’t be more than thirteen years old!”

“I’m not.” She jumped to her feet again. “Got any more of that angel’s food cake? Tommy ate all the stuff you sent home.”

The bookseller looked at her, and Emmy gave her winning smile, the one that never fooled Tommy for a second. With a sigh, the bookseller pointed her towards the kitchen. “Please be careful with the dishes. If you break one –”

“I’m not going to pay for it,” Emmy snorted, wandering off. “Do we _look_ like we have money?”

The bookseller frowned, watching as she took a plate out of the cupboard and started piling it with food. “Well, I suppose that brings us back to the question at hand. You said you came here for money. Was there more to that story?”

Tommy nodded, forcing himself to stare at his hands. He didn’t have any appetite this time, even though the bookseller gently pushed a plate of bread towards him. “Yeah. Dad threatened to kick me out a few years ago. Makes me pay rent. Says I’m old enough to have a job.” He shrugged. “So I dropped out of school. Started working.”

“Ah.” The bookseller sat back, nodding slowly. “I take it you no longer have a job?”

“Closed. Cuz of the lockdown.” His knee was starting to bounce nervously. That strange calm that had come over him the first time...it was there, hovering around the edge of his mind, but he didn’t really _feel_ it. “But Dad still wants the money.”

“How much?”

“Six hundred pounds.” Tommy stood up, leaning on the back of the chair, trying to meet the shopkeeper’s eyes. They were warm, trusting, and once again he felt that tug in his gut to say more than he wanted. “Look, I know, I could move out for that. Probably could have already if I was smart. But I’m not. And I can’t save because Dad takes everything and…” He watched as Emmy walked behind the bookseller, tearing into an enormous slice of cake with gleeful abandon. “You know. I gotta watch out for my sister.”

“And how does your father expect you to produce six hundred pounds in the middle of…ah.” The bookseller stood and walked around the table to stand next to Tommy. “He _wants_ you to steal.”

Tommy shrugged, keeping his eyes on his feet. Trying not to meet the booksellers eyes, not to watch his sister wandering around the shelves, to ignore the awful knot inside. “We hit three other places this month. But I’m still short.”

“You needed the money, and I gave you pastries instead. I take it your father didn’t like the exchange.”

“He, uh,” Tommy tried to smile. “He wasn’t impressed.”

A soft, well-manicured hand landed on the back of the chair near Tommy’s. “Look at me, please, Thomas.”

Clenching his jaw, he looked the bookseller in the face. And gasped to see the hard, sharp glare back in those eyes.

“What brought you back here today?”

To his horror, Tommy found he couldn’t lie to the bookseller.

While he was still trying to choke out an excuse, the old man’s eyes narrowed, and he spun, grabbing Emmy by the arm. The plate clattered to the carpet.

“Oi!” She shrieked, jerking her arm, trying to pull free. “Let go of me, you pervert!”

“Put. Them. Back. Now.”

 _“What?_ I don’t know what you’re talking about, you _loon!”_

“Young lady.” And though his voice didn’t get any louder, suddenly the bookseller seemed ten feet tall. Tommy scrambled back against one of the pillars. He knew he should help, should defend his sister, some instinct in him screamed to do so. But he was completely frozen in place, barely able to breathe. “That book is over two hundred years old. For that alone I would throw you out in a heartbeat. But if that drawing has one rip – one _wrinkle_ on it, you will regret the day you ever set eyes on this shop.”

Emmy reached under her shirt and pulled out a rolled-up paper, trying to dangle it out of the bookseller’s reach. “So it’s valuable, then?”

He held out a hand, waiting. “It is _priceless._ And you will never find someone to pay you even a fraction of its value. Now give it back.”

Snarling, Emmy slapped it against his palm. “What the hell, old man? We need the money more than you.”

“Leave my shop.” He let go of her arm and cradled the roll of paper like it was a baby.

“Fine. Whatever.” She stalked towards the back door. “And stop _hiding_ Tommy, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be the adult.”

“Emily.” The bookseller’s voice echoed through the shop. Shadows seemed to stretch out from every shelf and corner, reaching for Emmy. “Leave that book.”

She scowled back at him, but he wasn’t even looking in their direction. She out the ancient leather-bound book she’d tucked in the back of her trousers and started to throw it on the ground. At the last moment she seemed to lose her nerve, and tossed it onto a chair instead.

Once it was out of her hand, Tommy felt the strange grip on him vanish. The shadows snapped back to where they belonged. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath of the strange shop air. Before, he’d thought it stank. Now he thought it was charged with electricity.

“I gave you a chance, Thomas,” the bookseller said coldly. The bright blue eye looking over his shoulder seemed almost to glow. “This is how you repay me. Go. Now.”

He didn’t have to be told again.

\--

With shaking hands Aziraphale unrolled the scroll. The five-hundred-year-old parchment felt crisp under his fingers, and he gently massaged a miracle into it, softening it, freshening it just a bit. There were no rips or bends, but to be safe, he pressed it flat against a table, weighing each corner down with a stack of books.

From the center of the paper, Crowley’s face looked back at him, smiling just a little, serpent eyes almost visible behind those glasses. Da Vinci had really captured his look. Not the face, though it was a very good likeness, but something more. The beauty mortal eyes could not quite perceive, something almost ethereal yet at the same time, quite the opposite. It hovered over the page, captured in the simple linework.

Crowley had kept this portrait, in secret, for five hundred years. Aziraphale had never known his own was part of a matched set, until a few months ago, when Crowley presented it to him, saying, “They’re a pair, you know. Supposed to be together. Displayed together. So I thought you should have this.”

He’d been too flustered to say anything at the time. He wanted to, though. He so very desperately wanted to say _something._

But Aziraphale was a fool. He’d always been a fool. Trusting the wrong people. Ignoring those he shouldn’t. He’d probably never change.

* * *

**Three days later**

> _…There are many things that have stood unsaid between us. Perhaps it is our way. Perhaps it will always be our way. But for all that, I truly hope there will never again be silence between us. Conversation with you might be the thing I most miss just now, and is surely what I most look forward to when this strange time has passed._
> 
> _Until then I remain,_
> 
> _Yours_

The pen hesitated one last time. Yours what?

Yours respectfully?

Yours sincerely?

Should he try to be funny? Profound? Was there some clever play on words he could put in?

Or.

Perhaps, for once, he could let the unsaid word speak for itself.

> _Until then I remain,_
> 
> _Yours_
> 
> _Aziraphale_

\--

A drop of deep green wax. Was that too forward? Too subtle?

He pressed new his signet stamp against it, sealing it shut with an emblem he’d designed with such good intentions. Would Crowley see what it meant?

Too late for doubts. Too late for second thoughts. The front of the letter was already written, perfectly neat: _Anthony J. Crowley, Esq._ Now all he had to do was get a stamp from his desk and –

He pulled open the left drawer. Empty.

The right drawer. Nothing but pens and scraps of paper.

He dug around the endless stacks of receipts and tax documents, destroying his neat piles in a desperate search.

No stamps.

Burying his face in his hands Aziraphale said, for only the second time in six thousand years, “Oh, _fuck.”_

He sat like that for a long moment, then slowly lifted his gaze to stare at the telephone.

\--

“You know, I could…hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle of…a case of…something…drinkable.”

Something rose up in Aziraphale, a terrifying fear he couldn’t begin to name.

“Oh, I-I-I-I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules. Out of the question. I’ll see you…when this is over…”

“Right. I’m setting the alarm clock for July. Goodnight, Angel.”

Aziraphale set the receiver back into the cradle, trying to stop his hand from shaking. His heart – which really, didn’t need to beat at all – was doing something altogether unexpected in his chest.

 _No,_ he told himself firmly. _This is the right thing. Wait out the lockdown. Like you’re supposed to._

The rules were there for a reason. They told you what to do when the world stopped making sense, when your own mind was ready to betray you at any moment. When you couldn’t trust yourself, you trusted the rules.

He’d followed that philosophy his entire existence and look where it had gotten him. A lovely shop, a _home,_ filled with books and art and cake. And no one else. No friends. No Crowley.

Just himself, alone, bent over a telephone.

And a heavy, frantic knocking at his back door.

\--

Tommy pounded on the door, echoing the pounding of his heart.

“I told you, this is a stupid idea,” Emmy grumbled.

“Well, we tried your way last time and look what happened.” He slammed his fist against the door again. “So just…just shut up and follow my lead.”

“I think I liked you better when you were scared of everything,” she said, trying not to smile.

“I’m still scared of everything,” he snapped. “But what else am I gonna do?”

He started knocking again, just as the door jerked open, and he nearly fell into the bookseller. The old man looked paler than before, and somehow even less happy, but maybe that was the evening light playing tricks. 

His eyes weren’t gentle or sharp this time, but something new, something that made Tommy’s heart ache in his chest.

“You two. I told you to leave.”

“We did leave. And. Um. Now we’re back.” Tommy cringed but rushed ahead. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I was an ass. I shouldn’t have tried to lie. And Emmy’s sorry for everything, too.”

“Well,” she grunted, not looking at the bookseller. “I’m sorry for _some_ of it.” Tommy shoved her arm, and she rolled her eyes. “Most of it.”

“That is something, I suppose.” The bookseller pressed his lips into a line, and settled behind the door, looking completely immovable. “But I’m afraid I’m still not going to allow you in this shop.”

“Fine, right, I understand. I just need, um, a hundred and twelve pounds.” The booksellers jaw dropped, but Tommy rushed on. “I’m not just, it’s not charity, right? I brought stuff. Here.”

Emmy handed over the backpack and he dumped it out on the ground. “There’s some books, and a couple of these weird trinkets, I saw you had some around the shop, and this jewelry…”

“This is a bookshop, not a-a-a pawn shop!” The bookseller gave them an indignant look. “And I am most certainly not a-a fence for your stolen merchandise.”

“It’s not stolen. Look.” His fumbling hands grasped the thick computer programming textbook and flipped it open. _Thomas Finch_ was scrawled on the inside of the cover in smudged, faded ink. “I bought this a few years ago. Trying to learn enough to get a better job. Only I’m real thick and I couldn’t follow it at all. So – so you can have that, right? It cost a lot, so it’s gotta be worth something now.”

The bookseller tilted his head, a look of vague disgust on his face. “Well, I don’t really have much use for a _computer_ book…”

“Fine.” He tossed it aside and rummaged through the pile again “Or, look. This necklace. I don’t think it’s _gold-_ gold but it’s really nice. It doesn’t rub off or turn your skin green or anything.”

With obvious reluctance, the bookseller took the chain and studied it up close. “I suppose it does look…Is this yours, young lady?”

Emmy turned her face even further away, arms crossed over her stomach. In the evening shadows, she seemed almost to disappear. “It was our mom’s. Before she died.”

“Ah.” He held out his hand, but Tommy didn’t accept the necklace back. “I wouldn’t take such an heirloom from you,” he tried again, and his voice was surprisingly gentle.

“We don’t _want_ an heirloom, alright?” Tommy could feel the panic rising in him, but he had to force it down, force past the tightness in his throat and the wetness in his eyes. Had to get through this. “We want a hundred and twelve pounds, by tomorrow, or my dad’s going to throw me out. In the middle of the lockdown, I don’t know what I’m going to _do.”_

“I’m sorry, truly I am, but you’ve already tried to rob me twice.” The bookseller let the necklace fall to the ground, joining everything of value Tommy and Emmy could find. “And once again you are here, outside, breaking the rules –”

“Shut up about the fucking _rules!”_ Emmy spun back, glaring at him from behind the fringe of her hair, swept across her eyes. “How are the rules supposed to help Tommy now? He can’t _get_ a job, or a loan, or anything. It’s all shut down. So what’s he supposed to do?”

“Emily.” Tommy knelt down and started putting everything into the backpack again. He kept dropping things, his hands shook so bad. He was out of ideas. “Fine. You won’t help me. But, look, Emmy’s just a kid. She’s made some mistakes, but…when my dad throws me out, can she stay here?”

“What –”

 _“What?”_ Emmy shoved him so hard he nearly fell over. “That’s not the plan, shit head! You can’t just dump me on some…some random –”

“Yes, I can.” His chest ached as he tried to meet her eyes. “I’m not leaving you with Dad, and I can’t take you with me if I don’t even know where I’m going. I don’t see another option.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“You’re _twelve,_ Emily.” Tommy stood up and put his hands on his sister’s shoulders. She wore her usual tough expression, but she trembled, fighting back tears. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” said the bookseller in an overly bright voice. Tommy started, guiltily realizing he’d forgotten the man was there. “I seem to be missing some information here.”

Tommy looked at his sister, saw all the fear that he’d been carrying for years echoed in her eyes. He took her hand, squeezed it tight.

Emmy took a deep breath, and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Showing the large, half-healed bruise on her face.

The bookseller was quiet for a long moment. “Your father did that?” His voice seemed to be very carefully balanced.

“Yeah. Um.” She cleared her throat. “I’m. I’m trans. So my dad. I guess he thinks if he hits me. Um.” Her gaze fell to the ground. “Fuck that guy, though, right?”

“Ah.” Another long silence. Tommy clutched at her hand, neither of them breathing. Emmy hated coming out to strangers, to anyone really. Lots of bad experiences. He could see her remembering them now, in the way her shoulders hitched, her jaw clenched. “And does your father hit you, too, Thomas?”

“Um. Yeah. Different reasons. But yeah.” He shrugged. “Since I was younger than her.”

“I see. Wait here.”

The bookseller stepped away from the door, disappearing back into his shop.

“I say we run,” Emmy said, reaching for the bag. “He’s probably going to call the cops on you, right?”

“I don’t know. Are you ok?”

She wiped at her eyes. He could see her jaw was still tight with tension. “I’m fine. Just. I hate telling people my shit.” She sniffed and glared at her feet. She still pretended most of the time, at school, even around their dad if she thought it would make him less angry that day.

She hated it. She pretended it was fine but watched that hate and pain eat away at her for years, just another thing he couldn’t protect her from.

“Look, Emmy, I’ll figure something out, I promise. We’ve got time. Another day, yeah? I’ll...I’ll think of something.”

“Shut up,” she shook her hair back in front of her eyes before turning her glare on him. “Just go if you have to. I’ll be _fine._ I’m used to being alone. I can take care of myself, and –”

“Oh, good, you waited. It’s nice to see you finally listening to me.” The bookseller stepped through the door to stand next to them, and the smile Tommy had glimpsed that first night was back on his face, warm and open. It made the evening seem just a little less miserable. “Here.”

He pressed an enormous wad of banknotes into Tommy’s hand. More than a hundred and twelve pounds. A _lot_ more.

“That should be enough to get you started in a flat of your own. It won’t be easy during the lockdown, of course, but by some miracle there are a few places available in the north of London that should suit. _Please_ be careful with that, it will likely need to last you some months.”

“I…” Tommy stared at the pile of money. It was more than he could have imagined such a crummy shop would hold. “Why…how…”

“I believe this is when you usually say _thank you,_ although I’m not very good at that part myself.” Before Tommy could even find his words, the bookseller had turned to Emmy. “As for you, young lady.” He reached to put a hand on her shoulder, then quickly pulled back when she flinched, instead tilting his head down to try and meet her eyes. “I wish I had some advice for you, I really do. I don’t think I even know where to begin.”

“It’s --” Emmy started.

“Do _not_ say it’s ‘fine,’ my dear, because it’s not.” There was a sharp edge to his tone, but it quickly softened. “It’s never ‘fine’ to feel alone. And if you’re suffering, that’s all the more reason to reach out.” There was a moment of uncertainty - Tommy saw the bookseller bite his lip, and his eyes grew distant, lost in his own thoughts. Then he turned back to Emmy and smiled, holding out a small stack of business cards. “And there are organizations you can reach out to. I’ve put the ones that specialize in teenagers on top. Support groups. Hotlines. Legal aid. Which reminds me,” his eyes shot over to Tommy again, “you should probably call the police on your father, but I’ll understand if you want a stable living situation first.”

He pressed the cards into Emmy’s hand. “I know you might not be ready to talk, but when you are...there are people ready to listen.” She stared at the cards in her hand. “You aren’t alone, my dear, and you don’t need to take care of yourself. Let the people who love you take care of you. Especially your brother.”

“I don’t…” Emmy’s fist closed around the cards. “I’m not…”

“Not quite what you need? I have a few books on gender identity. I always find that a bit of reading helps me think about what I’m going through. You’re welcome to look through them any time, under strict supervision, of course. I’ve _seen_ the way you eat.”

“So…we’re allowed back in?” Emmy wondered.

“Yes. Any time.” He patted her hand, then stepped back. “Especially now, if you need a place to go for a few hours. Just _please_ come to the front door next time, this alley is horrendous.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to be on the streets,” Tommy mumbled, still feeling dazed. But he felt his lips twisting into a smile. “You know. Against the rules and all that.”

“Well. I suppose…sometimes the rules do sort of get in the way, don’t they? I can…make an exception.” He beamed at both of them, the sort of smile that made it impossible to think of anything except smiling back. “Well. Jolly good. Now I think you two will need a bit of time to come up with a plan. What do you say we discuss this over cake?”

* * *

**Two hours later**

Aziraphale pressed the phone against his ear, listening to it ring. He had only rehearsed his conversation twice this time. He hoped it would be enough.

 _“Now_ what? Don’t you know I’m trying to sleep?”

“Hello. It’s me. Aziraphale.”

“For the last… _I know.”_

“Er, right. Ah. I just wanted you to know. Um. That is.” Drat. He really should have rehearsed more.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice turned very serious. “Is something wrong?”

“No, w-w-well, yes, that is…” His eyes drifted over to the table, the stacks of books, the cakes, the bottle of cognac. “Yes. Dreadful emergency. I’m nearly out of brandy.”

“You’re. Are you serious?”

“I am _extremely_ serious, Crowley.” He took a deep breath. “And what with the lockdown on. Well. I would need someone to…to break _all_ the rules in order to get me more.” He bit his lip. “And-and possibly some Merlot, or a nice Riesling. I have ah…rather more red velvet cake than I can eat.”

A long pause, Aziraphale tugging at the cord of the phone nervously.

“I thought you wanted to wait out the lockdown.”

“I did. I just…” He started to sit down, then sprang back up again, too anxious to hold still. “I realized, well, I _can_ take care of myself, but that…that doesn’t mean I _have_ to. And the rules…um…they…”

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted softly. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

The smile trembled across Aziraphale’s face. “Ah. Yes. Good. I have some new neighbors to tell you about, I think you’re going to like them. And. Uh.” His fingers fell on the folded-up parchment, sealed with a drop of wax, green for hope. “And I have something for you, Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed it. I'll likely come back and write a simpler Lockdown-tie-in that focuses more on the Ineffables, as that three minute conversation gave us lots of ground to cover.
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments below! :) I'm a little slow to respond in these weird times, but I promise I still read them all!
> 
> Quick shout out to [kedreeva,](https://www.tumblr.com/search/kedreeva/blog/kedreeva) who noticed the green wax and stamp and their significance (green is the heraldic color of hope, and a deep green sax seal can indicate "hopeful lovers," while bright red simply indicates "business"; furthermore, Aziraphale's ring might be a signet, ie, used for stamping his seal, but he uses a separate stamp for this letter -- perhaps a personal one, or one specifically for "our side"?)
> 
> The titles of the books are all ones glimpsed in the lockdown video. There's certainly a bit of evidence Aziraphale is looking into questions of morality and matters demonic during his newly free time. GK Chesterton's "Orthodoxy" is glimpsed in one close-up (it's the book with the chapter title "Ethics of Elfland" and the page discusses Milton and Eden), though Crowley likely recommended Chesterton's series of short stories featuring a priest and a reformed criminal solving crimes together.
> 
> I don't normally delve into transphobia and similar topics in my stories, but it was very strong in my mind as I wrote that Tommy and Emmy's reason for trying to rob the shop was that they were stuck in a bad living situation and didn't know how to get out of it. I tried to keep it vague because it was the only part of the story that approached a T rating, and I wanted to keep this G. However, if anyone feels the T rating is more appropriate, I will change it.


End file.
